


Black Camel and Hot Nights in Baghdad

by Star1086



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, UST, fracture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star1086/pseuds/Star1086
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Olivia's death haunted him still. Missing scene from season two's Fracture. Originally posted under the same title on FFN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Camel and Hot Nights in Baghdad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffinWood](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=CoffinWood).



> Originally posted on FFN with edits done by CoffinWood.

It’s fucking hot.

Not _Boston in the summer_ hot or even _Florida in the middle of July_ hot _,_ but hot like a smoldering cigarette where there’s nothing left to burn but ash. The mere act of walking through the crowded streets of Baghdad feels like an ant frying under the microscope of an enormous and very sadistic kid. It makes her lightheaded and woozy on her feet, made worse by the busted leg and cane on which she’s leaning most of her weight.

Looking straight ahead makes it easier to ignore the curious glances of strangers as they pass, but she’s well aware that between her hobbling gait and freckled complexion, she sticks out like a sore thumb in a sea of pinky fingers. Wrapping the material of her scarf more securely around her face helps to block the sidelong looks of men as they pass too closely in the streets, her first line of defense at a semblance of protection.

There’s a light but firm touch at the small of her back and every muscle tenses and she has to resist the urge to throw it off in panic. A tilted head reminds her that it’s _Peter’s hand_ and she relaxes a little before she catches him staring daggers at the small cluster of men conversing loudly together on the opposite side of the street and the tension doesn’t fully leave. She can’t make out what they’re saying, but they give Olivia a good once over and she feels each glance landing hard on her skin. Her back tightens as she straightens, just as Peter guides her to his opposite side, putting himself between her and the sudden onlookers.

“What are they saying?” she asks, leaning in to whisper against his neck as she shuffles. Normally, she’d be annoyed as hell at having to be led by anyone, but on this occasion his strong and insistent hand at the small of her back is an odd comfort she’d never admit to in a million years.

“No clue,” he lies easily, his mouth a blunt line in his face, his lips pulled in between his teeth. He pulls his warning look away from the men and back to their destination.  The hotel isn’t far, and he’s more than glad. The sun’s beating down on his neck and the dry heat pulls into his lungs in a way far too familiar to make him feel anything but prickling uneasiness. He spares a glance down and lets a smirk slip when he sees her nose is already a rosy pink. He almost forgets to look dangerous.  

It’s short lasting though. Every inch of him returns to being coiled tight and ready; scanning the streets for any signs of recognition that would spell disaster. He notices the men in the corner before she does; their faces unfamiliar but no less sinister to him and even though his Arabic is rusty; he picks up pieces because they assume he doesn’t speak the language. They’re talking openly about her. It’s their topic of choice that makes his gait double in speed, but it’s their lowered glances that make him palm her back and glare treacherously in their direction.   

He bribes the man at the front desk when they make it to the hotel, sliding a handful of dinar’s over the counter, leaning low and away from Olivia who’s  feeling a bit exposed as she waits for Peter to do, well, whatever it is that _Peter does_.

Peter and the man’s conversation is clipped but friendly, and Olivia’s just relaxing her shoulders when the talking stops abruptly and both turn their attention to her. Peter offers her a reassuring smile as the man behind the counter scrutinizes her behind his black caterpillar eyebrows before nodding to Peter and handing over an old fashioned room key and a small clear bottle with a smile, his teeth yellowed corn in his mouth. Peter pockets the bottle inside his blazer but keeps the key loosely fisted in his hand.

He pushes off against the counter, passing alongside her toward a hallway and she trails him, feeling hot in the face and self-consciously angry at him and the man both. Peter pauses to push open the door that leads to the ominous set of stairs and lets her limp through ahead of him, giving one last sweep of the hotel lobby before following after her.

“Sorry, no elevator.” He apologizes, expecting her to complain or make some sarcastic comment. She surprises him with neither, watching in fascination as she grips the side rail to hoist herself up the first flight without complaint. He hangs back for a moment until he’s sure she won’t topple backward, but he doesn’t dare offer to help though, not after his impromptu touching in the street. He’s damned lucky she let him get away with it before; he’d be a dead man if he tried it again.

She turns to stare at him from the top of the flight of stairs, her forehead bathed in a fine sheen.

“You coming?” She cajoles, and he makes his descent up the stairs behind her, his long strides catching up to her easily.

It was a very good plan that he didn’t offer to help.  

The room is small but clean when they get through the door. Olivia’s brow furrows as she takes it in. There’s a window overlooking the crowded city below, a modest dresser with a small TV on it, a worn chair in the corner, and in the middle of the room: one full bed.

“One room?” she says, ignoring the bigger question she wants to ask.

Peter’s already dumped their bags on the bed on his way to the AC unit that’s held together in the window with duct tape, flipping it on and the smell of rotten bananas fills the room as it rumbles to life.

“Under the circumstances,” he shouts over the thick sound of forced air, twisting the knobs to see what was functioning, “It’s better that you don’t stay alone.”

“Oh,” she says, confused as she unwraps the scarf from around her head, peeling it away and letting it slither into a grey heap of silk atop the bed. Her hair is a sticky mess under the heat and silk, and raking her fingers through it hardly makes her feel better. Every inch of her is damp. She doesn’t know where to move so she just stands awkwardly in the middle of the cramped room.

“What was that downstairs?” She asks, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Peter peeks over his shoulder, still fiddling with the controls of the unit and pumping semi-cool air into the room. Her face is still freshly pink, made worse by the frustration he knows she’s feeling by being left out of the punch-line of the joke.

“Oh, that?” He grins as he turns back to his task, giving an errant knob one last twist, forcing the air to drop to a bearable temperature, “I had to tell him we’re married.” He states matter-of-factly.  He catches the look of indignation bubble on her face in the reflection of the glass.

“What?” She says, her neck prickling from the cool air that’s filling the room. He turns away from the unit, satisfied as he waves away her fuming posture in his friendliest repose. “They don’t allow women to stay unaccompanied.” He explains, letting the cool air blow on his back as he grins at her.

“And that’s how I got him to sell me _this.”_ He smiles miles wide, reaching into the linen blazer and withdrawing the same small bottle she saw before. _He looks good in the blazer_ she thinks, unaccustomed to the soft fabric in stark contrast to the black leather she usually associates him with.

 She doesn’t recognize the lettering other than _Black Camel_ in Arabic on the part that isn’t obscured by Peter’s hand.

“What is it?” She asks hesitatingly, jutting out a questioning chin in the bottle’s direction. 

 Peter slides out of his blazer, feeling the sweat sticking to his back as he does so and tosses it into a heap on the chair in the corner. He twists the cap off the bottle and the sharp smell burns his nostrils.

 

 

“This, Agent Dunham,” he says as he takes a swig, feeling the alcohol burn his throat pleasantly, “is why we’re in Iraq.”

 

* * *

It’s late into the night, the small light from the nightstand filling the room with a soft homey radiance. The TV’s on and turned to some local station for the sole purpose of drowning out the noise from the streets below. Peter’s slumped back on the chair; his legs perched lazily on the mattress of the bed that Olivia’s taken harbor in. The bottle in Peter’s hand is now half-empty and he’s feeling particularly numbed and wonderfully relaxed.

Olivia’s leaning against the headboard, absentmindedly watching the images on the TV flash away and letting the alcohol tingle the sore muscles of her back. She’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting this way, but she’s decidedly more comfortable being crammed into the small room with him rather than the idea of being without him.

“Why Iraq?” she asks offhand, eyes never leaving the safe glow of flickering lights of the television. Peter turns his head in her direction, letting it roll on his shoulders to look her over. For a moment he doesn’t comprehend, so he just stares at her through the folds of the grey tunic she’s wearing, the silky fabric rippling and curling down her form like a waterfall. Her hair’s loose from the tight bun from earlier, now falling in great waves down her shoulders. It’s intriguing to see her so out of character from her usual masculine button down pant suits and pony tails.

“Hmm?” he manages, and his throat tickles from the vibration. He shifts his gaze to the window when she turns to face him, distracted by the streets below.

“I don’t get why you’d come here.” She says, taking another sip of the alcohol and wondering why it feels so good when it burns like hell. It tingles in her throat and tastes vaguely like black licorice on her tongue. She looks into the cup when the glass feels too light and finds with a frown that it’s empty.

He swirls the clear liquid in its bottle, watching it make little tornados in the glass before he finds her face again. He sees the frown and a smile slips out as he looks at her. She looks so much younger than he could’ve imagined; her lips pulled down at the corners like a child who’s lost her doll. He swings his legs off the bed and slides off the chair to where she’s sitting on the bed to pour her another shot. He doesn’t bother with a glass himself, taking another hot pull from the bottle as he slumps onto the bed next to her.

He shrugs at her question as he settles onto the springs of the mattress, having no real answer. “It was someplace different.” He finally settles on. This time, he doesn’t look away when she brings the cup up to sip at the alcohol, her lips parting and he barely catches the pink of her tongue. His back tingles even though it’s still far too warm in the room to be comfortable. He traces the path the alcohol takes with his eyes:  from her lips to her neck, watching her throat dip as the liquor’s carried down. He tilts his head as he watches, transfixed by her skin.

“What?” she asks, squirming under his undivided attention.

His eyes skirt back to the bottle, taking another pull and he’s feeling light and airy. He’s really missed this stuff.

“Would you come have back here then, if they closed Fringe?” she asks his profile, watching his throat bob as he decides on how to answer. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the chestnut skin of his arms dark and flexing as he swirls the bottle around between his nimble fingers.

His eyes are a muted black when he lifts his head to her again, and  she feels her breathing hitch in her chest as he stares blatantly at her.

_Through her._

“I wanted to.” He answers honestly, taking another gulp without averting his gaze. She gawks back at him, lost in the dark abyss of his leveled gaze. She feels little needles pricking their way along her legs now.

He turns away from her suddenly, shattering her reverie. He’s lining up the distance to the door and feeling a little more confined than he had earlier; the walls shrinking around him like a trap.

“I would have,” he admits into the open space, “if you had died.” He says it softly, lifting the bottle to his lips and downing more of the liquid. The utterance throws her off guard. They’ve never mentioned the car accident; she doesn’t like discussing it and he lets her ignore it. Her breath rattles in her chest as she looks to the television again.

Peter’s not yet drunk, but close to it. He’s feeling the alcohol swim in his head and muting his control. He traces lines in the carpet, finding shapes and figures where none exist just for the distraction from the images of her lifeless body on the gurney at the hospital. He hasn’t quite been able to get the disturbing image out of his head since then, even though she’d survived; springing to life like some new age Frankenstein’s monster. When she doesn’t say anything he reluctantly continues.

“When I thought you were dead,” he struggles, words feeling foreign from neglect in his mouth. Her cane catches his attention as it sits alongside the bed as a token reminder. It’s solid as he grips it to spin between his fingers: winding it up then back down. “I was already gone.” He finishes darkly. She’s stopped breathing at his point, eyes following the cane as it twirls in his fingertips, transfixed. She can’t bring herself to ask for elaboration.

He drops the cane down, letting it plunk against the worn carpet and turning his attention back in her direction to find her glass empty. He shifts his body to lean across her to refill her plastic cup and she can just catch the musky scent on his neck as he pours her another two fingers’ worth.  She’s groggily reminded of leather and heat and unmistakably _just Peter_. He lingers, the bottle empty in his hand now and he tosses it on the bed beside her, his hand feeling oddly naked without the safety of the bottle to occupy himself with.

He notices suddenly just how close in proximity he is to her: his arm leaning on the other side of her crossed ankles, their faces inches apart. He turns his neck and his breathing is a soggy fog in his chest. She’s aware of his space, eyes dropping to his mouth as he stares at her and his stomach twists at the turn of events.

She ignores the glass he’s just filled, more intently focused on his lips as they hang inches away from hers. She forgets about the car crash, her dislocated hip, her shattered memory and the unknowing human bombs racing around New York. All she can hone in on is the way Peter’s mouth parts in front of hers and the heat embers on his lips that dance like fire to hers.

Something pulls her slightly forward, shifting her gaze from his lips to his eyes, finding them black and feral and unmoving. She remembers him when she awoke terrified in the hospital, his face a beacon staring down on her as she muttered the Greek words she didn’t understand but held so much significance.

Everything’s still until her lips graze his delicately, lightly tracing the outside of his mouth, feeling in raw exhilaration when the pressure’s returned and he pushes his face into hers. His palms find either side of her jaw, pulling her closer as he drinks in the kiss, forcing the images of the hospital to the furthest part of his memory and focusing on her: alive and taut  and assaulting his lips violently with hers.

He can taste the sweet heady tang of the alcohol on the tip of her tongue, feeling the overwhelming pull  to her, to test her solidness; confirm that she’s real. She lets the cup turn over onto the floor, forgotten as she slides a hand against his chest, feeling his shirt almost damp against her fingers. 

His fingers trail their way around the curves of her face, skating his thumb lightly over the scratches and scrapes that haven’t completely healed over yet. His tongue invades her mouth and he shifts her into the wood veneer of the headboard as he continues to kiss her with a fever he thought he’d lost.

Only when wisps of light dance in front of her eyes does she finally pull away, twisting her face to gasp for air when she realizes she’s stopped breathing. His breath is one long ragged huff in her ear as he attempts to pull warm air into his own lungs. His fingers linger on her face, nose resting against her cheek as he takes in the sounds of Baghdad out in the night.

He doesn’t dare try to pull her in again, the implications of their actions already settling in on them like a cold rain. He’s content to have her back in his twisted little family unit to push the envelope too far. Her breathing’s already steady against his ear and he can feel her lips against the warm skin of his neck.

“What’s in that stuff?” she mumbles as she drops her chin down to her chest. When he finally brings himself to shift back to look at her, she’s still pink in the face, her cheeks a brilliant red and he feels a swell of affection at seeing her flushed in any other color than ghostly white. He can’t quite relinquish his hand on her face though, not yet.  They have a flight back to Boston in a few hours and, when it’ll all go back to the way it was.

 She’ll pretend and he’ll let her. Just like before. It’s what he’s good at.

He smoothes the hair from her face before letting his hand drop to his side again, the grin concealing nicely the real emotion on his face.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He responds easily, and for the first time in weeks she cracks a smile.

He cranes his neck over his shoulder to look from the scarf on the bed to the moonless night of a bustling Baghdad outside the window, feeling like nothing and everything’s changed, all at once.    


End file.
